


location

by fennbluu



Category: Idolverse - Fandom
Genre: M/M, god i love these suckers, he's a tired man, poor saranyu he just wanted to dance, to quote kyle, welcome to hell! welcome to hell!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-18 04:29:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennbluu/pseuds/fennbluu
Summary: if you exclude his absolutely atrocious cologne collection, lee yohan is a pretty good guy.(in which saranyu is falling in love and he really, really doesn't know how to handle it.)





	location

saranyu was nine years old,

tripping and falling for the third time that evening.

he was young,

and there was so much energy in him,

he couldn’t help but to use it all up.

he felt tears welling up in his eyes, starting to sniffle

as the scrapes on his knees throbbed with pain.

_“mama,”_ he wailed. _“mama, daddy!”_

like magic, when he said the words,

his parents came from not too far behind.

his mother held him close to his chest,

while his father applied the band-aids

and rubbed soothing circles into his skin.

_“mama,”_ he sniffled. _“don’t leave me alone.”_

his mother kissed his forehead,

and his father picked him up in his arms.

_“we wouldn't leave you,_

_not for anything.”_

saranyu was eleven years old,

playing with his cousin in the backyard of his house.

saranyu was wearing a yellow sweater that was much too big for him, but he wore it because kimhan said it made him look like sunshine.

saranyu giggled as he spun in circles, did cartwheels, and danced in the thai sun.

in a few years, saranyu would be dancing everyday, working himself to the bone perfecting every movement and rhythm to the beat of music.

it’d fill him up with joy, while at the same time being his only downfall.

kimhan smiled at him, watching animatedly at his energetic younger cousin.

his mother, saranyu’s aunt, called from his home.

_“boys, come inside, i baked you some bread!”_

in a few years, it would be kimhan making the bread, maybe in his own bakery somewhere, just as he’d always wanted.

it’d become his passion, consume him with the happiness that dancing brought to saranyu.

saranyu looked at kimhan, with his big childlike eyes and bright smile.

_“race you inside?”_

kimhan smiled so big his cheeks must have hurt.

_“lan, you make me so happy sometimes,_

_you must be made of sunshine.”_  


saranyu was thirteen years old,

coming home home to an empty, dark house where the floorboards shone but creaked. he slammed the door, since no one was there to hear.

his muscles ached. one of them was bound to be torn, again. he made a mental note to get his brace from the closet, biting back a hiss when he accidentally bumped his sore hip against the countertop. he’d fallen today. too many times.

he dropped his schoolbag on the floor and opened the refrigerator, squinting at the bright light. he hadn't had an actual meal since the last week he and his parents went out for dinner together. that was also the last time he had a conversation that went beyond _“good morning”, “i love you”,_ and _“have a good day”._  he heated up the container that his mom left him two days ago.

he ate in silence, kicking worn-out shoes against the floor. he was getting too tall for his weight, ribs and collar bones protruding from his skin. he should probably start eating more, he thought, and told himself to buy something more filling from the vending machine at the dance studio.

he scrolled through his instagram feed, somewhat pleased at the positive feedback from his newest dance cover upload. his dance instructor had praised him on it immensely that day, making the back of his neck and the highs of his cheek flush.

the memory made him smile, just a little bit. he hummed as he finished his meal, not bothering to clean any dishes as he made his way to his bathroom.

taking off his shirt, saranyu noticed the bruises littered across his sides. he grimaced, gently rubbing at them as if it was going to do anything to take them away. sighing in lament, he turned the shower head on and tried to ignore the sting.

lying in bed that night, he stared at his ceiling wall, counting the cracks on the wall as if they were stars. he never found a way to really get himself to sleep, drifting somewhere in the five am dreamscape.

he plays back the memories of that day, the good ones, and tries to take it with him to sleep, to the next day, to forever. the moments where he aced the choreo, hit the notes, got _praised_ for doing _well._

_"you really got something in you, kiddo,_

_i know it."_

saranyu was fifteen years old,

sitting on a plastic chair of the waiting room of the hospital.

his hands were shaking and his vision was blurring at the edges. he couldn’t quite think—or couldn’t quite _stop thinking_ —and he was slowly driving himself insane, driving himself apart, bit by bit by bit by bit—

he had received a telephone call earlier that afternoon—“ _is this kyung saranyu?”_ —in the middle of his classes— _“please come urgently to gwangju hospital.”_ —and had been taken by one of the counsellors downtown— _“your parents have been in an accident.”_ —where he was waiting now.

they haven’t told him much; it’s more of what he overheard. an eighteen wheeler on the freeway—it had been their anniversary, and they had gone to one of those nice restaurants downtown—slammed into them full force—with the lobster and the kind of noodles his mother liked—sending their car into traffic—saranyu’s never been, since it was the restaurant that was _theirs_ —and they had been taken to the er immediately.

fatal injuries, they said, fatal blows to the head, fatal internal bleeding, it doesn’t look like they’re going to make it, fatal, fatal, _fatal—_

_“kyung saranyu?”_

the boy looked up at the nurse before him with red-rimmed eyes. his hands were still shaking.

_“we're sorry,_

_but your parents didn't make it.”_

saranyu was seventeen years old,

sweating underneath the artificial lighting of the dance studio.

he’s one of the many tired boys in the practice room, one that’s been there for years, just like the others. but saranyu’s never been like the others. saranyu’s better. saranyu’s the best dancer the company got, said the instructors, with one of the best vocals too, if he didn’t give up on it the second he cracked. he’s got talent, they remarked, he’s got what it takes. he’s made for the stage. he’s got the passion, got the drive, got the fire in his eyes.

kyung saranyu has been a trainee for meta entertainment for the past three years and even after being scrutinized, monitored, and trained under their careful eyes, they didn’t know anything.

did the company know he cried himself to sleep every night, if he even could? did the company know that he threw up the little food that they gave him in the bathroom, two fingers shoved down his throat? did the company see the bags under his eyes, the ones covered up by the concealer the trainees pass around to make themselves look better in front of the instructors? did the company know how hard he worked to be on top, to be the best goddamn dancer in the room while pretending that he didn’t hate himself, that this was his passion?

did the company hire sick boys?

of course they didn’t know, because saranyu’s spent the last three years pretending he wasn’t one.

so he danced, because it was his passion. he danced, because it was his drive. he danced, because that was what put the fire in his eyes. he danced, because it was the only thing he could hold on to.

_“that one,_

_he’s the one i want for the new group.”_

saranyu is nineteen years old,

and he’s old enough to say he lived, but too young to already be dead.


End file.
